


We Started As a Flame (now even the ashes have forgotten our names)

by December_Daughter



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 03:36:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2492990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/December_Daughter/pseuds/December_Daughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oliver should be the man by Felicity’s side, in every way possible, because no universe can exist where he doesn’t love her. He knows, down to his very core, that they should be together. They are supposed to be together, but he blew it all to hell on the heels of a rocket." </p><p>Two people try to find their way back to each other, and find they were never really apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Started As a Flame (now even the ashes have forgotten our names)

**Author's Note:**

> Here, have six thousand words of angst that ends in fluff, because apparently Olicity is more important to me than three days' worth of homework. (I think my priorities may be a little screwed up). This is kind of a fix it fic, because on one hand I love the angst roller coaster we're in for, and on the other hand I just really need to be closer to the end of the season so my poor heart can get a break. At least, I hope the latter half of the season will start to make up for the pain of the first half. Anyway - yeah. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Spoilers: 3x01. Set in the not-so-distant future.

Oliver knows that if there were an award for a complete and utter lack of self –awareness he would not only win it, but it would be named after him.

He has never been particularly good at understanding the things that drive him. Introspection and self -discovery had never been much of a concern for him growing up. The folly of youth and disposable wealth had taught him to chase the next rush, to do what felt good without bothering to wonder what sort of consequences might follow. Why should such things matter to him, when he had powerful parents and a best friend who was arguably a worse influence than Oliver himself?

There's no way to know how far he might have followed that path, had he never joined his father on that yacht. Oliver hopes that something would have happened to make him adjust his course, though.

On the island there hadn't been time for deep thoughts and philosophical questions. Ironically, his time on Lian Yu had sparked exactly those sorts of things. He had done things – become someone that he had never thought he was capable of being. There, his motivations had taken a back seat to his survival. He had to survive, and to find a way home, and nothing else mattered.

Oliver has improved a little in the last three years, though. At least, he likes to think that he has, and he hopes that he's right. Still, his understanding has a penchant for showing up a beat too late, if it shows up at all. He is, and will probably always be, a man who acts before he thinks. Such a nature serves him well as a masked crusader for his city; the same cannot be said for other parts of his life.

The moment Felicity had walked away from him in that hospital, Oliver had been unable to shake the sinking sensation in his stomach. For once, he'd (mostly) understood his reasons for pulling away from her; after all, their first date had ended abruptly because of a _rocket_. He had been so preoccupied by thoughts of their impending dinner that he had literally laid the danger at Felicity's feet. The disaster had been a stark reminder of how dangerous his life was – the life that he had chosen. That rocket may as well have had a personal note attached to it: everyone close to you is a target.

Felicity is important to him. She has always been important to him, whether or not he can explain why. She teaches him, guides him, pushes him; the one person Oliver is certain that he can always see clearly through the haze of his life.

And he has made her a target. The word is sour in his thoughts and he hates to think of it in conjunction with her, but he has to. Oliver has to, because Felicity is a person to him, and that makes her a target to others.

Despite that, Oliver knows that he made a mistake. His intentions were pure, driven by a need to protect her that he'll never be able to rid himself of, but every time he looks at her now all he sees is a mistake so big that it's a disaster. He pushed her away; when what he really should have done was pull her closer.

Felicity is a master of compartmentalization. Their interactions only seem different because Oliver knows how they've changed: how they stand a little farther away from each other now, how there seems to be a bubble between them that wasn't there before. The empty places where their tentative intimacy had once been flourishing are like open sores within him. They bite at him sometimes, as if to remind him of his folly.

He can't forget.

Oliver is not an unkind man, an ungenerous man, but he thinks that he hates Ray Palmer. Well, not truly. Felicity means everything to him, and he could never hate someone that makes her smile the way Ray seems to. That's all Oliver wants for her, in the end: smiles and lightness and safety. He should be happy for them, and he is happy for her, at least – but he doesn't know if he can find it within himself to be happy for Ray. Not when Oliver knows that it should be him.

He should be the one to make Felicity smile, and keep her safe, and kiss her at the end of the night. Not because he's better for her, or the better man, because he knows that neither of those things are true; no, it should be him because there's no way Ray can feel about her the way Oliver does. Oliver should be the man by Felicity's side, in every way possible, because no universe can exist where he doesn't love her.

Oliver knows, down to his very core, that they should be together. They are supposed to be together, but he blew it all to hell on the heels of a rocket.

 _You are a fool, Oliver_.

He does his best to be happy for her. He thinks he succeeds for the most part, at least as far she knows. Oliver has been making good on his words – he doesn't want to die down here – and making an effort to discover whom the new Oliver Queen is. For starters, he's stopped referring to himself in third person (mostly), which Digg seems grateful for. He makes sure to ask his friends about their lives outside of the lair, even though a small part of him withers like a flower in the desert at any mention of Ray and Felicity together. He doesn't let himself feel the disappointment in her presence because he is the one who ruined them, and she doesn't deserve the backlash.

This is his penance, Oliver knows, and he pays it. He is a fool, but he's not the spoiled brat he once was; his actions have consequences and he must face them.

In his kindness and discretion, Digg refrains from telling him what an asshole he is. Only once does he venture to let Oliver know that he screwed up, and that alone should earn him sainthood. Sometimes though, Oliver catches the other man giving him a look that makes him think he doesn't always succeed in upholding his front of false happiness.

One night, Oliver returns to the foundry late after a mission. Roy is still out on patrol and Oliver gave Digg the night off, so he descends the stairs alone. He'd heard Felicity saying something about a date to Roy earlier, so he'd purposely taken a long route back to the foundry. He expects Felicity to be gone, and has chosen to avoid her for a reason: there's a bullet in his bicep. He can feel the blood, wet and sticky against the sleeve of his jacket as it makes his way down his arm.

Oliver's hood is pushed back and his mask is already off by the time he steps off the stairs. Gingerly, he reaches over with his uninjured arm to slide the glove off his other hand. The last thing he wants is to have to clean blood out of a glove; trying to get it out of the fingers would be a bitch.

Felicity is still there. Oliver stops walking the same moment she stands and turns to face him. For a moment, he doesn't know what to say to her. Should he ask why she hasn't left for her date? Should he make sure everything is okay? She doesn't look upset or angry.

"I thought you had a date?" The words sounds stupid and a little awkward as they leave his mouth, and he immediately wants to take them back.

Felicity only offers him a small smile. "Canceled."

He doesn't dare ask who canceled it, or why.

Across from him, Felicity's eyes go wide and her mouth goes slack, her bottom lip falling away from the top in slow motion. "Oh my God," she hisses. "Oliver!"

Her stilettos ring out a quick staccato as she spans the gap between them. She reaches for his injured arm and only then does Oliver realize that there are rivulets of blood sliding down his fingers and onto the floor.

"What happened?" she demands as she leads him over to the first aid station.

Oliver sits automatically. "It's just a bullet, Felicity." Her glare is fierce when she levels it at him. The look makes him realize how flippant his answer sounded, so he tries again. "It's not as bad as you think."

He has to stop talking and focus on holding his breath as Felicity's sea foam green fingers work to unzip his leather jacket. Intent on her task, she pushes the material off of his good arm and waits for him to shrug out of it before turning to the injured limb.

"I don't know how to remove the jacket without hurting you," she admits quietly.

Oliver uses her moment of indecision to grab the end of the sleeve and pull it off his arm as smoothly as he can manage. The material feels like sandpaper over his wound and he grimaces, huffing out a big breath of air when his arm is finally free.

Felicity has too much experience patching him up. She moves automatically to the drawer that houses their first aid supplies and comes back with a pair of tongs and everything needed to stitch him up. The only problem is that she's never actually pulled a bullet out of anyone before, and Oliver doesn't want her to start now.

"Here," he says, and reaches for the tongs. His palm slides over her fingers.

"I can do it," Felicity assures him. She looks determined and calm, if a little pale, so Oliver pulls his hand away and leaves her with the tongs. "Just don't punch me, okay?"

He almost frowns. "I would never hurt you, Felicity. Intentionally," he adds, because there's no way for him to deny that he has hurt her.

A dry laugh escapes her. "I know. It was supposed to be a joke."

"It's not a joke to me." Part of him hopes that she didn't hear him, because he doesn't know why he said it.

Either way, Felicity doesn't answer. She steps into his side, nearly pressing herself against the length of his arm, and then she's digging into his flesh and his arm is on fire. Oliver closes his eyes and clenches his teeth against the pain.

He is familiar with the idea that clarity and pain are sometimes a package deal. The phenomenon is one he has experienced more than once, so it shouldn't be a surprise that it happens again.

The memory comes first: Felicity, teary eyed and accusing him of not having any feelings. There's no reason for him to recall such a thing at that particular moment, but the echo of her words hit him like an anvil. He remembers how those words had pierced him; his inability to understand how Felicity, the one person he'd thought knew how deeply his emotions ran, could say such things about him.

Now, months after the incident, Oliver thinks he might understand. As the Arrow, he has little room for emotion; more than that, though, after the island he'd been too afraid to let himself feel anything. Any emotion felt overwhelming after everything that had happened, so he'd pushed away every one except anger – and fear. Those were the two things that had kept him alive.

His anger has lessened, but not his fear. He is a creature of fear: it is the one emotion that seems to be at the base of nearly everything he does. He had pushed Felicity away because he was afraid; of endangering her, but also just afraid of her in general, and all the things that she made him want.

He'd been afraid when Sara died as well. Not afraid of death, but of breaking down and failing to get the justice his friend deserved.

Felicity doesn't know any of that, though. He had told her that he was afraid of what would happen if he let himself be Oliver Queen, but he'd lacked the words to define it properly. Oliver Queen is powerless, and can't protect the people that mean the most to him; he's an ex-playboy and billionaire with a freighter's worth of baggage and a bad reputation.

Oliver realizes he's been wrong to hide his disappointment from her. He doesn't want to upset her, but she deserves to know that he wasn't toying with her. Felicity should know that he isn't unaffected by her, as she seems to think.

"I'm sorry." His voice is scratchy and he can't make himself look at her for a minute, because he's not sure how she'll respond.

"For what?"

Oliver sighs and turns his head so he can watch her sew up the wound in his arm. Her little hands are so steady. "I was afraid." Her brow creases in confusion, and he rushes on before he can change his mind. "After our date. After the explosion. I saw you lying there, covered in ash, and for a second I think … I thought you were dead. Those men were after me, and you got caught in the crosshairs, and I knew that if … if we were together, then you'd be a casualty. Or worse, a target."

"Oliver."

His name is just a gust of air over her lips, but he hears it anyway. Her hands have stopped moving, and Oliver raises his eyes to look at her. Felicity's expression is intense but hard to read; he's not sure if she's upset with him for what's he said, but now that he's started he's determined to get it all out.

"I was afraid, and I didn't see a way to be …" he pauses before he refers to himself in the third person. "I didn't know how to balance both halves of my life. When I'm just Oliver, I'm …"

"Normal?" Felicity offers.

He laughs, and then looks away to search for the right word. When he meets her eyes again, he knows what word he needs. "Less."

The lines of Felicity's body soften and she leans into him a little more. "You're not less, Oliver. We all have different sides to who we are, but none of them is less than the others."

"I think I'm learning that. You were right, though – I was waiting to die down here. I just didn't know it."

The words are sharp in the air between them, and they make her flinch. Oliver reaches out with his good hand and wraps it around her bicep, just above her elbow, and unconsciously starts rubbing his thumb over the skin there. He didn't mean to use such harsh words.

"I'm not waiting anymore," he continues softly. "I want a life outside of this basement. And you made me see that. I was wrong to push you away, Felicity. I know that I made a mistake, and that you've moved on, but I just … I just need you to know that I love you."

She probably doesn't believe him any more this time than she did the last time, and that's okay. His I love you's always seem to come at the wrong times, or with some sort of extenuating factor. Oliver knows this. He also knows that he needed to say the words at least once without something to lessen their worth. This time, there is no ploy to catch a villain; this time, he tells her without mincing words – without delivering them in some way that can be misconstrued. There is no anvil hanging over their heads now, and no way for her to chalk his words up to fear or a rushed confession in case he doesn't come back.

There is nothing special about this moment outside of her, and them. His timing is wrong – it's always wrong – and he knows that the confession will earn him nothing. It's better that way, really, because he doesn't know how else to let Felicity know that he's only said the words because he means them. He can't bear the idea that she thinks his words were hollow.

"I can't." She doesn't elaborate, but she doesn't have to. She can't rehash this, she can't answer, she can't give him another chance; Oliver knows all of those things, and in time he hopes he'll be able to accept them.

"I know."

She's so close. The skin of her arm is like silk beneath his hand, and he can almost feel the brush of her dress against his arm. He wants to kiss her; he has worn out the memory of what her lips feel like beneath his.

There's just a moment where he thinks that her bright magenta lips might be getting closer. Is that her breath ghosting over his mouth and chin?

Her phone rings.

When she disappears a minute later with a blush and a jumbled apology, Oliver tries not to take it personally. After all, she's not really running away from him.

Though he won't blame her if she is.

* * *

 

Felicity has been working here for months and she's still not used to it. Every day she walks into the IT department at Queen Consolidated, a little voice inside her head reminds her how strange it is to be here without Oliver. The business world is a beast of its own, she knows, and bears witness to countless takeovers every day. Ray Palmer has been good for the Queen family company.

She can't seem to make herself stop thinking about it as Oliver's company, though. Whenever she steps foot upstairs and finds herself surrounded by those glass walls, she expects to see Oliver behind that desk. Ray has the qualifications, but Oliver … well. If nothing else, he has her loyalty.

Complicated is a word that applies to more than her professional life. Well, her professional life is complicated; her personal life is a disaster wrapped in a joke that has too many punch lines.

She likes Ray. As in, likes him. He's funny, intelligent and charismatic; it's an enjoyable bonus that he's good with computers and can keep up with her technobabble. They're good together, and that's good for her. She finally has someone in her life that wants to be with her. More than that, Ray has never made her doubt or second-guess his intentions. He is a happy, healthy person who knows what he wants and goes after it.

Ray is not Oliver, however, and while it infuriates her that she's entertained that thought even once (more than once, damn it), there is a reason. No matter how well she gets along with one, it does not change the history she has built with the other.

Oliver is a difficult person to be around sometimes. He's demanding, moody, and can be a real asshole when he wants to be. Part of that is just who he is, but part of that is because he's been through things that most of the population probably can't fathom. He gives up so much of his life – so much of himself to keep the city safe, and Felicity knows that. She sees the toll that it takes on him. More than that, she sees him.

Oliver Queen; the Arrow. Felicity knows every side of him that he's let her see, and maybe a few that he hasn't. They have shared things that she will never share with Ray, and the result is … permanent. Ray is wonderful, but Oliver is Oliver, and there will never be another like him.

(Sometimes, Felicity offers up a prayer of thanks for that because she's not certain the world could handle two of him, and she most certainly could not).

Liking Ray is not the same as loving Oliver, but for a while she can ignore the difference. It's easy at first, to get swept up in the butterflies and flirting and simplicity of it all. They like each other, and for a time she doesn't have to think of anything else.

Her anger at Oliver fades eventually. She accepts that while he's an indecisive idiot, he never meant to toy with her feelings. Whatever his flaws, he is a good man, and her friend. He had told her – albeit in a roundabout sort of way – that he loved her, and in the absence of her anger Felicity finally allows that he might have meant it. But her love and his love don't seem to share the same color palette, and it's time she finds out what sort of picture she can paint with the colors she's been given.

Felicity is not counting on a late night conversation in the foundry over stitches and a bullet wound. She is not prepared for Oliver's honesty, or his confession, or his sincerity. He doesn't seem to expect anything from her when he tells her he loves her, and that affects her just as deeply as his "I love you" does.

She can't say the words back. Those words are heavy and she is afraid of how that weight will settle between them, or that she won't be strong enough to bear that burden if he changes his mind again. She doesn't say them, but she means them. In a moment of weakness Felicity might have tried to show him just how much she meant them, if Ray hadn't called.

Neither she nor Oliver brings up that conversation again. At least, not verbally anyway. In the weeks that follow, though, Felicity learns to hear those words in the empty spaces between the ones he says. "How was your day?" he asks, but all she hears is "I love you".

Mid-November brings with it the discovery that Ray has an alter ego of his own. The man Felicity has been seeing is also The Atom, and that doesn't throw her for a loop the way that it should. Considering what she spends her nights doing, there isn't much sense in being angry with him. (Though she still is, a little).

They aren't given much time to deal with that development before another one arrives. He calls himself Ra's Al Ghul and she can't remember why that name is so familiar until Oliver tells her that he's not only Nyssa's father, but also the de facto leader of the League of Assassins. They don't know why Ra's is here or what he wants, but Oliver does his best not to make an enemy of him.

All of his attempts fail.

(They are becoming experts at making sense out of chaos).

The first of December finds Felicity in a somewhat awkward situation. Queen Consolidated has opened its doors to the city for a fundraising gala, so she finds herself dressed to the nines and rubbing elbows with a mix of coworkers and the city's rich and powerful. She's not there as Ray's date, but he makes sure to ask her to dance and smile at her from across the room whenever they make eye contact. Felicity thinks it's sweet.

Then she sees him. The knot of people in front of her dissolves and she suddenly finds herself staring at Oliver. He's in a sharp gray suit, half turned away from her and talking to an older man that she doesn't recognize. Surprise courses through her.

Oliver turns his head and their eyes meet. He smiles at her and must excuse himself, because he makes his way toward her seconds later. Felicity strides out to meet him. There is no way for them to know that they look for all the world as if they've been magnetized; they move together as if the pull between them is a physical pain that can only be alleviated by their proximity to one another.

"Hi," Oliver says when they stop in front of each other.

"Hi," Felicity answers. "You're here." That's not what she meant to say, because obviously he's here if he's in front of her, and she wrinkles her nose in frustration. "I mean, why are you here? No, that's not right either."

Oliver doesn't look perturbed by her rambling. His lips are quirked in that little smile that she only knows is a smile because she sees it so often.

"You didn't say you were coming," Felicity finally blurts. She presses her lips together to contain any more awkward rambles.

"I wasn't sure if I would."

Felicity nods instead of asking what she really wants to know: why has he come? Had Digg talked him in to making an appearance? Is he here to check on his – the company?

He extends a hand to her. "Felicity, would you like to dance with me?"

She isn't expecting that. Her heart starts to beat a little faster as she slides her hand into his proffered one and lets him lead her out onto the dance floor. Felicity tries to focus on where she puts her hands instead of the way his arm slides around her waist, but it's less helpful than she hopes. One of his hands is wrapped around hers, and her other one curls instinctively around his bicep.

Felicity doesn't know if they've ever been this close without some threat to either life or limb. Maybe on the rare occasions when they shared a hug, but those only lasted a few seconds; this feels more intimate. His arm is so long that it wraps completely around her waist and the pads of his fingers are pressing into the skin above her hipbone. The rush of her blood is a cacophony in her ears.

"You look beautiful," Oliver almost whispers. He tilts his head a little to the left, and Felicity recognizes the action as a sign of nervousness. She'd seen him do the same thing on their ill-fated date. "You are beautiful," he corrects.

She can't help herself; she laughs quietly and shakes her head, breaking eye contact long enough to catch the breath she can't quite seem to find.

"What?"

"It's nice to be reminded that I'm not the only one who trips over their words. I mean, I still have the market cornered on awkward rambles and word vomit, but I've learned to live with it."

The arm around her waist tightens. Oliver's smile widens a little. "Word vomit. Interesting."

Felicity glares at him. "I know you've heard me say 'word vomit' before, Oliver."

"I have," Oliver agrees. Then, with the same sincerity that he seems intent to show this evening, he says, "I like the rambles."

"Lies!" Felicity accuses teasingly, smiling at him. She doesn't know where this playfulness is coming from, because while they haven't been on bad terms, this element of their friendship has made scant few appearances in the last few months.

"I like everything about you, Felicity."

What she hears is "I love you, Felicity".

Maybe, years down the line, the important moments of her life won't be interrupted by some sort of disaster. Today is not that day, however.

The windows shatter around them. Felicity curls into Oliver's chest reflexively as he pulls them toward the ground, stretching himself out over her to shield her from the hail of glass. People are screaming as the crowd devolves into a riot.

When he doesn't feel the patter of falling glass against his back, Oliver unwraps himself from her. "Are you hurt?"

Wide eyed, Felicity shakes her head in the negative. Oliver half pulls her to her feet and she glances around wildly to take stock of the situation. Bodies dressed in all black are rappelling in through the shattered windows even as terrified partygoers are streaming out of them and onto the street. She doesn't need to see faces to know that these are Ra's Al Ghul's men.

Oliver grabs her by the hand and then they are sprinting for the exit. She can't see much over the solid wall of Oliver's back, or the mass of bodies in front of him, so she has no idea why they suddenly come to a screeching halt.

Then she sees the red-orange tongues of flame that are crawling up the doorframes and support beams.

"Oh my god."

Oliver cranes his head back to scan the ceiling for any kind of air duct or crawl space markers. He mentally curses when he realizes that the ceiling is too high to reach, and he doesn't have his bow.

Felicity is wrenched away from him, a scream that sounds like his name tearing from her throat as she's bodily lifted off her feet and dragged away by a faceless monster. She thrashes desperately and feels one of her heels connect with what might be a shinbone.

"Duck!"

Felicity's whole body jerks to one side in response to the command. A gray blur sails past her cheek and then she finds herself in a heap on the floor. There's a scuffle above her and she scrambles out of the way before turning in time to see Oliver flipping her abductor over his shoulder. The fire suppression system kicks on as he reaches down to lift her up against him. The water succeeds in soaking them and turning the glassy floor into a slip and slide, but it does nothing against the fire.

Her stomach sinks when she sees the way Oliver is eyeing the flames around the front windows. Felicity thinks she knows where this is going, and she's terrified.

"Take off your shoes," Oliver commands, and Felicity's heart is now in her throat.

She slips out of her heels and then laces her fingers through his. The artificial rain and smoke are making the room hazy and her lungs are starting to burn, but she doesn't think she can make herself run toward those flames. Felicity has jumped out of a plane and bombed a (empty) building and offered herself up as bait for a madman, but she can't do this. She can't throw herself into an inferno.

"No!" The word is more of a squeak. Oliver hears it anyway and turns to look at her. "I can't do this, Oliver, I can't."

"You can," he says firmly. "You have to."

Felicity is shaking her head before he's gotten the last word out. Oliver drops her hand and wraps both arms around her shoulders in a tight hug. His suit jacket is open and his shirt is wet beneath her cheek, but she clings to him anyway. Oliver is a pillar of strength around her, a column of muscle and ability and determination.

He drops his arms from her shoulders and then cups her face in his hands. His eyes are intense and focused. "I'll be right next to you, okay?" On impulse, he presses a kiss against her forehead.

Felicity squares her shoulders. "When we make it out of this, I'm taking vacation for a month."

The mind has a way of blocking out things that it can't – or won't – process. In the moments after she opens her eyes, Felicity doesn't remember the running, or the heat, or the smell of singed fabric. All that registers is the scratch of pavement against her bare shoulder and the hacking coughs that make her throat feel like she's swallowed gravel. She can make out Oliver's form next to her, but her eyes are burning so she closes them for just a second. A breath, she promises herself, and then she'll pull herself up and make sure Oliver is all right.

When Felicity opens her eyes again, the ceiling of the foundry is above her. She's disoriented and has to blink against the bright lights.

"Oliver?" she instinctively calls out.

Felicity turns her head to look for him, but he's already there. His clothes are damp and wrinkled and smell like smoke, so she must not have been out for long. She grasps the back of his forearm to assure herself that he's there and then closes her eyes again and starts to cough.

Oliver helps her sit up and swing her feet over the edge of the metal table. Her head spins and she wobbles a little, so he curls a hand around her hip to steady her. They stay like that for a while, his hand against her hip and her head drooping into his chest.

When Felicity raises her head and opens her eyes this time, it's to find her staring straight at a morose Ray Palmer. Her whole body tenses in surprise and no small amount of guilt, because it's only upon seeing him that she realizes that she hasn't thought about him since she started dancing with Oliver. Ray was in that same burning room with her, and it had never occurred to her to look for him.

She is a terrible, terrible person.

"Ray." Her voice sounds like it's moving over gravel.

"I'm going to get you some water," Oliver tells her. "Do you want to stand?"

"Please."

He steps back far enough to give her room to slide off the edge, but his hand stays on her hip until he's certain that her legs will bear her weight. Then, without a word to either of them, he disappears upstairs.

"Are you okay?" Ray and Felicity ask simultaneously.

She smiles at him and nods. "A little shaken up, but nothing too serious."

"I'm so sorry, Felicity. I looked for you, but …"

There's a knife twisting slowly in her breast. He looked for her, but she didn't look for him. She's probably going to Hell. "It wasn't your fault, Ray. You have nothing to apologize for."

Felicity feels like she has so much to apologize for that she'll suck all the air out of the room before she's done. She finally has to admit to herself that if she were a computer, Oliver would be her default programming. She can add to it, create another layer of code or install another firewall, but none of that will change the underlying operating system.

Felicity is a strong woman who makes her own choices and navigates her own directions, but somehow the road will always lead her to Oliver. When push comes to shove, she'll run toward him instead of away, every time.

Ray doesn't seem surprised when she breaks up with him. Honestly, Felicity's not even sure what reason she gives him – her throat is killing her and her head is pounding and all she really wants to do is curl up and go to sleep. Ray looks sad but not angry, and he leaves graciously with a last kiss and a quiet smile.

Felicity retreats to her computer chair and pulls her legs up beneath her. She angles her body in such a way that she can prop an elbow on the armrest and then tuck her cheek against it like a pillow. She closes her eyes and dozes long enough to dream that the next resume she turns in lists her last job as a firewalker.

There's no telling how long she sleeps. When Oliver wakes her again he's freshly showered and changed. He has a zip up hoodie and pair of sweatpants in one hand, and a bottle of water in the other.

"Put these on," he tells her gently as she drains half of the bottle. "And then I'll take you home."

Felicity throws her dress away and then lets Oliver drive her home in her car. They are parked outside her townhome when she realizes that he has no way to get back to the foundry.

"I'll call Digg to come get me," he explains when she points this out.

She's too drained to argue, so she goes inside and collapses into her bed. When she wakes, she's still in Oliver's clothes.

* * *

 

Felicity manages to hold on to the words until Christmas. She should probably get an award for holding out so long, because the words that she once thought were too heavy now seem to have wings. They're like hummingbirds that create tiny whirlwinds in her chest every time they try to get out.

Digg and Lyla insist on having them over for a quiet dinner. Felicity denies Oliver's offer to pick her up because, really, the end of December is no time for a motorcycle ride. He surprises her by promising that he actually has a car for the occasion.

The evening passes enjoyably, with a surplus of smiles and light conversation. Felicity tries to relax and ignore the way her tongue seems to keep trying to push three words out of her mouth; she succeeds for a while.

They're standing outside her townhouse when the hummingbird words finally break free from her ribcage. Felicity unlocks her door and then turns to face him. It's after midnight and she's so nervous it feels like she's been mainlining caffeine all day; she opens her mouth to say something, to wish him goodnight or invite him inside, but none of that comes out.

Instead she says, "I love you."

The words are suspended in the air between them like snowflakes caught in an updraft. Oliver's lips part in surprise and his breath is visible against the cold winter air, but his eyes are fixed only on her face. He huffs out a breath, but she doesn't know if it's an expression of surprise or a laugh.

Felicity squares her shoulders, and then can't contain a smile. The words are out and they have taken their weight with them.

"I love you," she repeats, clearer and more firmly this time.

Oliver's lips are cold when they descend upon hers, but his hands are warm against her cheeks. This kiss is like the only other one they've shared, except that it signals a beginning rather than an end.

Felicity invites him in after all.

The empty spaces between the words he speaks aren't the only places she hears his I love you's now.

(She always says it back).


End file.
